


Medicate

by Detavot



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Gen, My version of William's backstory, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detavot/pseuds/Detavot
Summary: He was numb.





	Medicate

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Rx by Theory of a Deadman

 

[Rx by Theory of a Deadman](https://youtu.be/iwxfmYR7ItM)

 

* * *

 

 

    “Got the goods?”

    “Got the money?”

    Those two lines summed up his life very well. It was sad how many days, months, years lined up in his vision to mirror this scene perfectly. The only thing that kept changing was the dealer, now that he thought about it. Sometimes he had a moustache. Other times a beard. Very rarely he was shaven. He had met with the dealer enough to see him cleanly shaven ten times, which was a feat some could feel proud of. It was uncommon for a man to stick with a certain dealer for so long. He wondered if he could brag about his discovery of this rare accomplishment, get some street attention. Perhaps other dealers would start lining up; he was sure that he was the only faithful customer this god-forsaken country had to offer.

    “Here.” Crumpled up, sweaty notes were passed. Barely enough to make it. The dealer took one look at the notes and another at the man’s face before sighing and handing the notes back.

    “No. Ya know what man, I ain't got the kicks you’ll be wantin’. All I ‘ave are weak shit.”

    Something clawed at the man’s throat. “Wait, no, please, I need something.” He searched in his pockets, if they could even be called that with the state of his trousers, and found a few pennies. He held the notes and the newly added pennies out to the dealer with shaking hands. “Give me all of them, I can make it work.

    “Buddy, go home.” Buddy. That was the nickname the dealer had decided to give him a year ago, as the man smartly avoided giving his real name. It was the most intimate nickname he had ever been given. “Get some sleep. Maybe get clean. These streets ain't for ya, ya belong up there.” Up there, as a lawyer. As a part of the aristocrats.

    “They won't let me climb up,” the man whispered. His weak knees gave out on him and he fell to the floor, scraped his knees and hands a little on the ruined path. He began sobbing. These were the most emotions he had felt in almost a decade; Hell, even more than that. He did not know what to do. He sobbed dryly, tears refused to come. His throat closed up. His shit life came back to press its burden on his shoulders, and he shone with emotion and withdrawal. “I need something, give it, give it!”

    He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating. He felt as if his head was trapped in dried cement. His chest was going to explode. He could feel his lungs splattering onto the walls. The blood running freely. His nails scraping, hurting, sliding off. His legs were numb. His head was spinning. Breathing heavily until his lungs were going to explode within him and leave a cavity in his chest. His lungs taking in the dry air and burning the blood and inner organs. His heart beating slowly, painfully, trying to explode but failing, the dry air burning it, giving out while he was still alive and could feel everything.

    “Give it, give it, give it…” he kept muttering. He ached. His hands were grasping something that contracted and felt alive. He squeezed the squishy, soft flesh. He could feel it tearing beneath his fingers. He applied more pressure. He made his nails bite. His hands were slick with blood and something in his hands was pulsing. He laughed. Then he coughed. The pulse stopped. The squishy mass stopped throbbing. The man took his hands off and saw the dealer’s ruined throat. Blood lazily streamed from the numerous deep cuts his nails had torn, the man’s throats was a mess of purple, yellow, and blood. He could see the individual broken cartilages ruining his neck and poking the flesh at odd angles and causing it to bulge.

    The man laughed and began to take the drugs hidden inside the dealer’s jacket and pants. Hands still slick with blood, he took all of the drugs and tasted the filthy, filthy germs inside the man’s body. He couldn't feel anymore. He was blissfully numb. This was what he had wanted.

    His heart began to pound. His world went upside down, so full of colour that it made him sick, and he hurled on his own person. His body throbbed. His lungs failed him. He could feel his organs shutting down. He could feel himself shit in his pants as his intestines gave out with a desperate gurgle. His lungs stuttered out a breath and felt as if they had dried out and exploded. His heart slowed down rapidly and dried out. His blood stopped. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. His body twitches as he hurled. His throat close up. It did not open again. He was drowning in his own vomit. The man suffocated to death.

    The man woke up.

    Blurriness was something the man was familiar with. He had lived his entire life blind to the world that had caused him torture.

    He was numb.

    “Welcome to the after-life, Mister,” a dry voice greeted. It sounded as dry as his last employer’s voice. The one he heard in his dreams every single fucking night telling him he wasn't good enough, how dare he mess up the case, did he know who he was, he would make sure even the East End pitied his sorry state. The man realized he didn't breathe anymore. “You have caused an overdose in your body, aiding in killing yourself in a slow and painful way. You must be aware of the fact that God has forbidden the act of suicide, classifying it as one of the worst sins possible to commit.”

    They had given him glasses so he could see clearly. It was too clear. He could see everything, he could see the world that had rejected him. He wondered if he could see God as well. See the man who had made his life Hell to live.

    “You will act as the minion of Death, reaping the souls of those who have died naturally and seeing their regrets as punishment for giving up on the life He had bestowed upon you.”

    There were so many like him. So many stories.

    “You will toil until the end of your sentence, after which you will be judged as a regular soul would and be passed the famous verdict of Heaven or Hell.” Why bother with Hell at this point, it couldn't be worse than this place or the mortal coil.

    He had a desk. He had paperwork to do. He had a position one could not take from him. This had been his dream when he had been alive, he would have done everything to achieve what he had thought to be impossible. And it had been impossible, no matter what his superiors tried to tell him. Some were just not dealt a hand in the merciless game called life, and could do nothing.

    And yet, he felt more numb than ever.

    He stapled another file and wished he could die again.


End file.
